


fell/fall

by hydraxx



Series: wordplay [5]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-10 19:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7000942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydraxx/pseuds/hydraxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being non-stop comes with consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fell (adj): of terrible evil or ferocity.
> 
> fall (n): a sudden uncontrollable descent.
> 
> August-September 1778.

As the end of summer approached, General Washington’s officers grew ragged with exhaustion. The aides-de-camp saw little sleep. Laurens and Hamilton in particular were slowly wearing themselves into a state of perpetual waking blurred by fatigue—but in spite of the unforgiving demands of the war, the military family had established a productive rhythm that lent them a sense of satisfaction. Through the rain-soaked days and still, humid nights they worked, occasionally falling into bed but more often waking in a haze with a dry quill in hand.

Hamilton had spent three or four consecutive nights in this manner (or perhaps it was a full week now. He’d lost count) when the Marquis de Lafayette and his good humor rode into camp. The Frenchman immediately whisked Hamilton and Laurens away to his own quarters, threw a smile over his shoulder at Washington’s knitted brow, and produced a bottle of wine.

“God bless the French,” Hamilton said by way of a toast, his voice raspy. “Guns, ships, and half-decent wine may just save this damned army. If nothing else, they’ll save _me_.”

Laurens concurred with a raised glass. Lafayette laughed. To Alexander, the wine seemed flavored with the warmth of brotherly affection; surrounded by his dearest friends, the men he loved, his heart swelled and he smiled for the first time in days. When he caught Laurens’ gaze, the other man’s eyes crinkled in a matching expression. Together they slumped onto Lafayette’s neatly made bed, sitting shoulder to shoulder, while their companion perched delicately on a wooden chair near the desk.

“ _Mes amis_ , how fare you all? How is _mon Général?_ ”

“We are all bone-tired, Lafayette,” John admitted. “Even His Excellency. We are fortunate to have gained the Baron’s expertise, but the army still struggles in the face of British might.”

Hamilton chimed in sullenly with, “And it doesn’t help that we have no supplies.”

Laurens groaned. “True.”

“No supplies?” Lafayette asked with a frown. “ _Où sont les patriotes de la nation? Ils devraient nous aider._ ”

“They are tired and hungry, too, _mon ami,_ ” Alexander explained. “Most of the merchants want British money in exchange for their goods—with good reason, I admit—and the common people are overburdened as it is.”

“We prefer not to requisition,” John added quietly.

“ _Qu’est-ce que c’est?_ ”

“Requisition—ah— _quand on prend les choses par la force._ ”

“ _Le vol?!_ ”

“ _Non—bien,_ it is stealing in a sense, but _idéalement_ the people will… willingly surrender their property for the benefit of the nation.”

Lafayette muttered something angrily about “ _faux patriotes._ ” Hamilton preferred not to meditate on which side he was condemning. He did not happily support the practice himself, but the truth was that without the promised funds and supplies from Congress, the army had few other options for keeping itself fed and clothed. Just thinking about the logistical and ethical mess gave him a headache. He tried to rub away the throbbing in his temple.

“ _Vous n’êtes pas bien?_ ” Lafayette had a worried eye trained on him.

“ _Ah, si, je vais bien,_ ” Alexander said, although the croak in his voice betrayed his overworked state. He frowned and tried to wash it away with another swallow of wine. Laurens rubbed two fingers along his thigh comfortingly but did not seem otherwise concerned.

A sudden crash of thunder outside the tent made Hamilton jump. He hadn’t noticed the afternoon storm rolling in as they talked; now rain ruffled the canvas above their heads and the last deep rumbles dissolved into the distance. A drop of wine slid down the outside of his glass onto one finger. Laurens reached out gently and lifted his wrist, drawing the hand and wineglass toward his mouth to lick away the drop. He glanced up at Alexander once, then dropped a light kiss on the back of his hand and released him.

Across the tent, Lafayette smirked. “ _Chers amis,_ you are too obvious,” he teased. Hamilton watched as Laurens made a face at their friend. Even crumpled into a ludicrous expression, his lover’s features spoke of strength and grace belied by the youthful freckles that dusted his skin. He sighed a little wistfully.

“Perhaps we should return,” Lafayette said, setting aside his empty glass. “His Excellency humors me, I know, but it is unfair to deprive our cause of its best writers.” He winked at Alexander, who rolled his eyes but hid a flattered smile. John snorted beside him.

“You have an exaggerated opinion of our abilities, _monsieur._ ” Laurens stood and placed his glass next to Lafayette’s. “But I am sure we appreciate the compliment.” He offered Hamilton a hand.

Rather than accept assistance, Alexander gave Laurens his wineglass and raised himself to his feet. The slight sway was the effect of the rather quickly drunk alcohol on an empty stomach, but neither of his companions noticed; they were already making their way into the rain.

Hamilton found it difficult to concentrate for the rest of the afternoon. He blamed the wine again, although his own sleeping habits of late were not entirely inculpable. After several hours’ determined but increasingly error-ridden work, he finally surrendered to the idea of going to bed. There was no point in writing now what he would have to discard entirely in the morning.

Trudging through the wet camp to the quarters he shared with Laurens proved a nearly herculean task. Every step left stubborn mud sucking at his boots; the earth beneath him seemed to shift of its own accord until he finally stumbled through the tent flap. Laurens, his dear John, was hunched over the desk with a flickering candle at his side. A tired smile bloomed across his face at the sight of his lover. He abandoned the paper he’d been reading and murmured Alexander’s name.

Hamilton dropped onto the edge of his cot, squeezing his eyes shut and digging the heels of his hands into them. A solid form pressed against his shins. He blinked away the blurriness until John’s face swam into focus, kneeling before him.

“I am flagging, my love,” he mumbled.

Laurens chuckled humorlessly. “As are we all. It has been a demanding season, no doubt, but we shall prevail. We must rise from this drudgery into glory. Who else could design our nation but your miraculous mind?” As gently as before, he took Hamilton’s hands into his own and pulled them toward his lips. Alexander hummed as John eased kisses along his too-warm skin and pushed back the cuffs of his coat and shirt to drag the tip of his tongue across the beating pulse at his wrists.

Still cupping Alexander’s hands, John leaned up to press a tender kiss to his bowed forehead, then mirrored the action on his chin, both cheeks, and the tip of his nose. A smile quirked Hamilton’s lips at his lover’s sweetness. They so rarely had a peaceful moment to indulge in these loving touches.

When Laurens paused, Hamilton tilted his head to bring their lips together. It was an unhurried kiss, more restrained by fatigue than spurred by passion. Alexander’s eyelids drifted half-closed. Apparently sensing his exhaustion, John negotiated their embrace until they were tangled together on the cot. They kissed languidly, slipping their tongues into one another’s mouths, running stiff fingers through disheveled hair, shifting limbs occasionally for greater comfort or closer contact.

Alexander finally let his head fall back onto the pillow and devoted a moment to breathless admiration of his Laurens. The candlelight from the desk set a hazy halo blazing around his dark curls. _My angel_ , Hamilton thought, and had to stifle a delirious giggle.

John covered a wide yawn before removing himself from Hamilton’s arms to extinguish the candle. In the dark, he pulled layers of clothes off both of them until they lay in shirts, breathing the thick air slowly.

Tucking his head into the crook of John’s shoulder, Alexander whispered, “I love you, John.”

A last soft kiss landed on his head. He barely heard John quietly return the sentiment before he drifted into murky sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Alexander woke in the muted light of a new dawn. He carefully extracted his limbs from the confining angles of John’s body and collected the pieces of his uniform, dressing haphazardly—he only had to be presentable enough to make his way down to the creek at the edge of the encampment. The water would be tepid and muddied by yesterday’s rainfall, but the sticky sheen of sweat on his skin made his senses crawl. A quick splash in lukewarm water was better than no wash at all.

By the time he appeared at headquarters to take up the work he’d left the night before as well as a growing stack of new assignments, the day was hot enough to make him long for the relief of the shallow, swampy creek.

Laurens was already settled at their worktable. Their first few weeks together had set a precedent that the other aides were loath to interrupt: Laurens and Hamilton always worked together. Everything functioned more smoothly that way. This morning, John was looking over one of Alexander’s last completed reports, checking for inconsistencies and obvious mistakes. Hamilton would resent the action from anyone else, but Laurens was privy to his most intimate moods and knew the weariness that plagued him and his quality of work in recent days. Laurens would always be discreet in these corrections.

Unfortunately, the idea that today would follow their usual back-and-forth routine was quickly dispelled. Every aide in the room jumped to attention as General Washington strode inside with a glower on his already stern face.

“Hamilton,” he snapped. “My office.”

Alexander threw John a pleading look, but neither man dared contradict their commander in this state. Laurens watched helplessly until Hamilton turned away, resigned, to follow the general. He closed the door quietly behind him.

“Congress has refused our pleas for supplies again,” Washington said. He did not look at Alexander but instead rifled through papers on his desk. Hamilton knew better than to speak now. The general would get to the real purpose soon enough, and any premature comment from his aide would be immediately condemned as impertinence. The pattern had been repeated many times over in the previous months. Hamilton was simply too tired to toy with insubordination today.

Washington took his seat and braced his arms on the desk. “We need to appeal to the Congress in person,” he said. “You will go to Philadelphia to speak with the delegates and request any assistance that can be had. I have already ordered your horse to be readied.” He held out a leather envelope. “These are letters directed to certain delegates that I hope may support our cause on the Congress floor. Deliver them directly to the addressees and make clear that I am calling on every personal connection I can muster. This is a dire matter. Do not fail me.”

Hamilton murmured, “Yes, Your Excellency,” bowed, and left the office.

Laurens’ eyes met his the moment he emerged, but Hamilton kept walking straight to their tent. The sound of hurriedly shuffled papers arose in the workroom before Laurens jogged to his side.

“You’re leaving?”

“Philadelphia.”

“The Congress?”

“Unfortunately. We need supplies.”

“I know.”

An outsider would have seen only military stoicism on John’s face. Alexander, however, knew the deep sadness that roiled beneath the surface because it paralleled his own. They were accustomed to these separations thanks to Washington’s constant dependence on Hamilton and Laurens’ usefulness for correspondence with the South, but neither was pleased. Days or weeks apart took their toll.

They packed Alexander’s bags with little conversation. Hamilton brushed his arm against John’s whenever he could, storing away the memory of these brief touches for the lonely weeks ahead. He was painfully aware, although he preferred not to dwell on it, that he could not even be secure in the thought of an eventual reunion; the army had suffered severe casualties that summer, especially at Monmouth, and mortality hung close in the air.

The walk back to headquarters was not leisurely, as they could not afford to waste their own or the general’s time, but Hamilton felt reluctance pulling at each stride. Cold dread pooled heavily in the pit of his stomach.

As he accepted his pack from his lover, he swallowed the tremor in his jaw to say, “Laurens—take care of yourself, for all our sakes. It would be a dark day should this cause be deprived of your excellent qualities.”

John smiled shakily. “Do you truly believe I would willingly endanger myself?”

Alexander snorted at that. “I know your character. Just promise me, please, that you won’t rush into some rash action for pursuit of intangibles.”

Laurens glanced away but nodded. “You have my word. As a gentleman and an officer.”

With one last clasp of fingertips, Hamilton galloped away down the camp road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Où sont les patriotes de la nation? Ils devraient nous aider. = Where are the nation's patriots? They should aid us.  
> Qu’est-ce que c’est? = What is that?  
> quand on prend les choses par la force = when one takes things by force  
> le vol = theft  
> faux patriotes = false patriots  
> Vous n’êtes pas bien? = You are not well?  
> Ah, si, je vais bien = Oh, yes, I am fine  
> chers amis = dear friends
> 
> Once again I have to beg patience with my update schedule. A paying job kind of takes precedence over fic. Sadly, this also means that there will be no guessing game for this work, but y'all are all welcome to send requests to my tumblr inbox at hydraxx.tumblr.com/ask


	2. Chapter 2

“Godspeed,” Laurens whispered as Hamilton rode away. His eyes lingered on the retreating figure until the trees swallowed both horse and rider.

A heavy heart slowed his steps back to the aides’ workroom. There would be little danger for his friend on this mission, but he keenly felt every absence regardless. Without Alexander, melancholy invaded the empty spaces at their worktable, in their tent, in their shared bed. He threw himself further into work as a weak distraction. Only Lafayette knew the true nature of his changed demeanor. John was content to let their compatriots believe he was merely compensating for the volume of work Hamilton usually produced.

It was fortunate that the marquis was in camp to provide companionship, because John knew that his more destructive habits would surface if not combated early. He and Alexander were alike in that regard. While Hamilton ran himself into the ground in pursuit of a life after war, however, Laurens feared the stark reality that faced such couplings as theirs. The love of Achilles and Patroclus could only end one way.

The day crawled to its uneventful conclusion. Lafayette, clearly trying to draw John’s thoughts away from Alexander, insisted that all the aides congregate in his quarters for a drink as dusk fell. With Washington’s begrudging approval, they traipsed through camp to the major general’s tent.

The sounds of an army at uneasy rest swirled around Laurens. Tilghman and Meade chattered behind him as they walked; insects’ chirping rose from the surrounding fields and forests; crackling fires and clanking metal pierced the swollen summer heat. John clenched his jaw and warded away the memory of Alexander’s exuberant laugh twining through the scene like a welcome breeze. His dark eyes would have sparkled with each flame they passed, lips moving in an endless diatribe no matter how tired he was. Oh, his unstoppable Hamilton.

Baron von Steuben was already presiding over the impromptu party when the aides-de-camp arrived. “Laurens!” he cried in his thick Prussian accent. “ _Où est notre léon?!_ ”

“ _Il monte à Philadelphie,_ ” Laurens said casually. The marquis quickly pressed a glass of liquor into his hand, then raised his own to propose a toast.

“ _Pour sa santé!_ ”

Everyone cheered agreement whether or not they understood the French. John’s shout emerged somewhat choked, but he covered it with a hasty gulp of his drink. Lafayette brushed one hand against his shoulder in a subtle show of consolation. On his other side, Meade misinterpreted the gesture and clapped him on the back.

“With Hamilton at their throats, we’ll have the whole army outfitted in silk for the season,” Tilghman cackled. Lafayette translated for the Baron, whose booming laughter brought a smile back to John’s lips. He flushed slightly at the lovely thought of Alexander swathed in silk, his elegant frame arrayed with falls of fabric.

“Laurens!” Harrison called above the din. “Isn’t your father in the Congress?”

“The president of it,” John replied, “for some months now.” He grinned. “I do not envy him the headache that will be contending with Ham.” The group exploded into laughter.

Liquor and mirth lightened all their spirits, Laurens included. The merriment of the evening was multiplied by von Steuben’s tendency to monopolize conversation, necessitating constant translation by Tilghman, Laurens, and Lafayette. This fortunately provided entertainment for their monolingual companions rather than a dull obstacle to their fun. John laughed so hard while trying to relate a long-winded story about a frog that he ended in wiping away genuine tears while clutching a table.

The party slowly dissipated once the day’s exhaustion began to catch up with them. Laurens, although rather drunk himself, was appointed to escort the stumbling Baron back to his quarters.

“ _Notre léon, il vous manque,_ ” the Baron said unexpectedly as they left the tent.

Neither John nor Alexander had discussed their relationship directly with von Steuben, but the man was astute in observing such bonds, and by some accounts was infamous for them on the continent. John nodded.

Realizing the night was too dark for his gesture to have been seen, he admitted, “ _Oui. Il est difficile d’être séparés._ ”

The older man hummed sagely but did not speak again save to thank John for his assistance.

 

* * *

 

 

Morning was not kind to Laurens. His pounding head haunted him from the first rays of dawn and made drills an utter misery. Von Steuben’s unforgiving French bellows had to be croaked out in English to the men before them until Laurens thought he might keel over then and there to be swallowed by the soft earth. He trudged through the day with slow improvement and rebuffed Lafayette at the end of it to fall into bed. The marquis pouted but did not protest.

Alone in his tent, John watched the ghostly patterns that played across the canvas thanks to flickering fires outside. He tried not to let hope bloom every time a soldier’s form neared the entrance, but disappointment still welled in him when they inevitably moved away. He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed once, and breathed deeply. Perhaps calming his body would encourage the same for his mind.

When sheer determination proved useless in the face of consciousness, John rolled out of bed and crossed to the small camp desk. His wooden letter box lay messily covered by several of the day’s reports. He shifted these aside and opened the box in search of a slim sheaf of letters bound by a strip of linen. The initials _A.H._ were scrawled upon the first page in John’s own looping hand. Lighting a candle, he sank into the spindly chair and slid the letters from their binding.

The first sheet was a hastily scribbled note that Alexander had left after their first day on Washington's staff together. John smiled, remembering the offense he’d taken to his friend’s cavalier tone before he knew the sincerity that laced those words.

Later missives grew increasingly affectionate as Hamilton promised camaraderie, devotion, love. He always wrote more effusively than John, who admitted some defect in maintaining regular correspondence.

One letter was dated out of order. John frowned. He didn’t recognize the opening line. The date was from some eight months previous, before they had moved to winter quarters at Valley Forge.

      _My Dear Laurens, Your hasty retreat leaves me cold and our sentiments unaired. Had you paused a moment more you would have known reciprocation from my lips and every part. There is none so dear to me as you; you have stolen into my sensibilities and planted what I thought a barren field._  
 _The thought occurs to me that if tomorrow goes ill you may never have these words from my person. Should these events befall us I hope to God that I am not the one left to face the world alone, for even at this early date of acquaintance I feel our Souls bonded too close to suffer separation unwounded. If I perish let these words stand testament to my deep Affection for you dear Laurens. Remember me as an eternal friend._  
 _Yours_

_Alexander Hamilton_

His throat constricted as he realized when Alexander wrote this—the night before a battle, when John had left to join Sullivan’s staff, before either of them knew the other’s true sentiments. Hamilton had nearly suffered serious injury on the field the next day, taking a strike to the head that felled him for unknown minutes. Laurens pushed down the panic that crept up his spine at the thought that he might have lost Alexander all those months ago without learning that his affections were returned, and generously so.

He blew out the candle and crawled back into bed, flinging away the thin blanket but clutching Alexander’s letter tight to his chest as if it might replicate the beating of his lover’s heart.

 

* * *

 

 

The letter found a place tucked inside the lining of Laurens’ coat, just over his heart, for the next several days. Even out of sight, the spidery trails of Hamilton’s script looped through John’s mind until he could not be sure whether he’d memorized the words or invented new ones.

Nearly a week had passed since Hamilton’s departure before the first of his reports arrived by courier. Laurens delivered the official correspondence to General Washington and quickly opened the note addressed to himself.

      _My Dear Friend, I advise you never to make such a hasty ride down this road as I have undertaken. The way-houses are adequate but the jolts of the journey are not to be borne. Even my poor Beast hangs his noble head at the thought of returning to it in the morning, but we are nearly at Philadelphia and cannot indulge in extended rest until we see this mission complete._  
 _I ask all the luck you can spare in this. The Congress has not been happy to entertain my requests in the past and that was only written; I cannot imagine they will be pleased to see my face, handsome though it is. I assure you, the weight of the Army’s fortunes rests greatly on my mind and I do not bear this responsibility lightly. Whether or not they take action they will listen and consider well. The representative of His Excellency the Genl. deserves this much at least._  
_In heart, head, every part of me I ache to renew our acquaintance even at such short distance. Pray take yourself no further from me! With all haste I endeavor to return to my Laurens.  
_         Your devoted

_A. Ham_

  
A bittersweet smile lifted John’s lips. Alexander’s fervor in serving their nation set a fine example and he admired his dedication. Still, it was a struggle not to fear for his lover every moment he was away—for his life, his success, the fidelity of their love. John felt selfish for it, but he hoped that the saying was true: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Où est notre léon? = Where is our lion?  
> Il monte à Philadelphie = He is riding to Philadelphia  
> Pour sa santé = To his health!  
> Il vous manque = You miss him  
> Il est difficile d'être séparés = It is difficult to be apart
> 
> Everyone give it up for America's favorite gay-ass Prussian! Really, though, I don't know how von Steuben worked his way in here.


	3. Chapter 3

Heat engulfed Alexander, roared through his veins until it drowned out the words he spoke too loudly. The congressman before him looked startled and a little angry.

“Mr. Harrison,” the man began, interrupting Alexander’s tirade.

“Hamilton,” he spat.

“Mr. Hamilton. General Washington has our full sympathies, but you must understand that the Congress can only use funds it _has_. It is impossible to offer the army further financial assistance until more pressing needs have been met.”

“More pressing needs?!” Hamilton fumed. “Sir, are you aware that the continental army has been the primary force opposing Britain for the last four years? We lose troops daily to desertion and disease, both of which could be easily remedied by a greater investment in supplies. The improved training regimen implemented by Baron von Steuben cannot help us if the army languishes for lack of food and shelter. _We need the Congress behind us, or this nation falls._ ”

The congressman’s mouth was pressed into a tight line. Hamilton drew a shaky breath. He could still feel the blood pounding in his ears, but the rush of excitement wore off enough for some clarity to reach his racing mind, and he realized that he was walking a dangerous line.

He bowed his head. “I apologize.” The words were curt but he meant them sincerely. “I was overtaken momentarily by feeling. It is difficult to bear the plight of our courageous soldiers when help seems so easily attainable.”

Had the congressman’s eyes softened slightly? “Mr. Hamilton, it is beyond my power to promise assistance. Any movement on the floor would be hotly contested. Perhaps a more senior delegate could propose this, but I am helpless. I bid you good day.” The man returned to his papers.

With a slight bow of acknowledgment, Hamilton retreated from the office.

He muttered to himself as he hurried down the stairs, running through every plan he'd concocted on the journey to Philadelphia and reworking them now that he knew the New Jersey delegate’s disagreeable stance. Washington’s implicit trust had made him bold. In the last several days he had spoken to nearly half of the Congress, beginning with those to whom the General had addressed letters and working his way through others most amenable to his cause. The breakneck pace was exhilarating.

A careless stumble tossed him against the wall and his head pounded. Alexander groaned. This headache had plagued him since before leaving camp; tension was building steadily behind his eyes now and he thought he might burst. This was the first meeting of the day, though, and he was determined to see them all through, so he pushed out of the dim building and groaned again when the bright sunlight dazzled him.

The city of Philadelphia bustled around Hamilton. He straightened his uniform coat and started down the street, brushing past vendors and pedestrians to reach the next delegate’s office a few blocks away. Laurens would despise such noise. The thick stench of late summer rose in miasmic clouds; Hamilton pulled out a handkerchief to ward away the smell, although he could hardly draw breath through his nose for the pressure that had accumulated there.

His aching thighs barely carried him up the flight of stairs to the office. Between his swift ride to the city and the constant dashing between delegates, every muscle screamed with fatigue.

On the landing Hamilton paused for breath. He dabbed away a trickle of sweat that crept down his forehead, wishing he could exchange these military trappings for another secluded afternoon with Laurens. It was mere months ago that they had reveled in the light spring sun. Now he would rather have dreary winter skies and icy roads, anything but such miserable heat unbroken even by the playful winds of his Caribbean origin.

A wretched cough wracked his body then, leaving him bent double and struggling for air outside the congressman’s office. His vision swam. For a moment, with the beat of the cough pulsing through his skull, Alexander saw a dingy room with palm trees swaying outside the small window. His panicked gasp brought his surroundings slamming back into place—Philadelphia, not Christiansted. That room was eleven years buried in his past.

The handkerchief he used to wipe his brow was already damp from perspiration.

 

* * *

 

 

The morning became a muddled blur of fruitless argument. Delegates from North Carolina, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and his own New York gave Hamilton the same noncommittal answers and referred him to an unnamed more senior member of the Congress. By midafternoon Alexander was desperate for some kind of affirmation.

He all but dragged himself back to his lodgings, still coughing as he made his way through the city. The halls of the inn were blessedly dark and cool after the unforgiving August sun. With no more arranged meetings for the day, Alexander intended to devote his time to writing.

These plans were delayed by the elderly landlady, a Mrs. Randolph, who appeared with her mending just as Hamilton passed through the sitting room.

“Oh, Colonel Hamilton,” she cried, “you do look weary. Come take your ease, here, and I shall fetch a cup of coffee for us both.” She patted one plush seat and bustled toward the kitchen.

Hamilton stifled a groan. His fingers itched to take up pen and ink, but Mrs. Randolph had shown him such kindness since he’d arrived and he could never refuse a lady’s invitation. Besides, every muscle fairly dissolved at the thought of sitting for a while before braving the stairs to his room. He slumped into the chair as china clinked in the kitchen.

His host’s voice startled him from a doze. “Now, Colonel, what has you dead on your feet at this hour?” Mrs. Randolph fretted. She served the coffee with surprising efficiency for a woman of her age. Hamilton was holding a steaming cup within moments and decided to brace himself with a sip before answering.

“I am still trying to find support for the army among our congressmen,” he said. “Their enthusiasm is not what I had hoped.”

Mrs. Randolph tutted, sipping her own coffee. “It is a disgrace to this nation that our own governing bodies will not give aid to the fight for independence. I have seen enough, young man, to know that this will never make a foundation for a country.”

Alexander smiled into his cup. He had never expected to find such a politician in his gray-haired landlady. “I heartily agree, madam.”

“Which delegates have you seen? What did they say?”

Hamilton rattled off the names he could recall but hedged the second answer in favor of some measure of confidentiality. The General ought to be the first to know the extent of their plight. He was on the verge of excusing himself to draft just that report when Mrs. Randolph spoke up again.

“Have you connections to the officers of the Congress? The president is Mr. Laurens, I believe, from the South, and good Mr. Thomson the secretary. Perhaps General Washington knows them.”

Alexander froze with his coffee cup halfway to the side table. Silently he cursed himself in a colorful stream drawing on every language he knew before turning to his host and saying, “My dear Mrs. Randolph, I think you have hit upon the remedy exactly. Pray excuse my hurry, but I must write to His Excellency the general immediately.” He abandoned the cup and offered a brief bow to the lady.

His energy seemed renewed as he bounded up the stairs to his room. Laurens was the answer—his own John, his dear boy, whose father was president of the Congress.

Outside distractions faded away. Alexander could see only the page before him, could hear only the scratch of his quill against paper. Perfect phrases composed themselves to tread the line between respect and supplication so that Henry Laurens would receive his appeal well. Surely, surely the presiding officer of the Congress could wield some influence in granting Hamilton this desperate favor.

Alexander gave a cursory glance over the note while the ink dried, mind still tumbling. If Laurens coaxed the Congress into allotting more funds for the army, they might finally establish a precedent of the two entities offering mutual support rather than the army serving almost entirely unaided by its government. They could recruit in greater numbers and thereby reduce the size of militias, prevent desertion by actually providing for their soldiers, improve general health and morale with increased supplies…

Hamilton’s pen dashed across the paper again, flicking specks of ink onto his cuffs in his rush.

_Lt. Colonel Alexander Hamilton to His Excellency Genl Washington of the Continental Army_   
_Dear Sir, It has come to my attention that some personal connection may be wrought with the President of the Continental Congress Mr. Henry Laurens. By the time this report reaches you I hope to be acquainted with the aforementioned in service of securing funds for the Army._   
_The intransigence of certain other Delegates has been disheartening but I beg Your Excellency not to become resigned to a lesser state of provisioning. If I am successful in my application to Mr. Laurens I pray we may see a rapid improvement in Morale.  
        Yr. obedient servt_

_A. Hamilton_

 

* * *

 

 

A day later, Hamilton stood stiffly before Henry Laurens with shaking hands clasped behind his back. The president of the Congress had graciously invited the aide into his own home in the city rather than his official offices, and Alexander was more than a little shocked at the display of wealth—John’s wealth, the money he was raised to expect. Richly upholstered wood furnishings filled every room; curtains and tapestries adorned windows and walls; even the rug on which Hamilton stood was extravagantly embroidered. He swallowed back intimidation to face the man before him.

He cleared his throat. “As I mentioned in my letter, Mr. Laurens, the army is sorely set upon for want of fresh provisions, both perishable and not, and His Excellency and I hoped that you might be able to forward our cause in the Congress—” His speech was cut short when Laurens began to shake his head. Hamilton frowned.

“I appreciate your tenacity in approaching me, Colonel Hamilton, although I am hardly surprised. I believe you know my son, John, who is also an aide to General Washington?”

Alexander nodded once.

“He has mentioned you in some correspondence. But I am afraid, Colonel, that I cannot offer you aid. The Congress itself suffers a lack of funds as we are unable to levy taxes, and even if we could allot some to the army, my position is such that I wield little influence.”

_Little influence? The president of the Congress?!_

“Sir, if you could just—”

“Colonel, I admit it is an unfavorable situation, and I am as wounded as you.” His stern face betrayed no vulnerability despite his words. “But the fact remains that I am unable to accomplish what you propose.”

Bowing his head, Alexander tried to draw a steadying breath but was foiled when the damned cough returned. It raked his lungs raw and left his skin embarrassingly reddened; a single furrow of concern appeared in Laurens’ brow.

“I apologize, sir. Are you—” Another cough seized him, so violent that he stumbled forward and curled over with one arm wrapped around his chest. The force of the spasms added to his still-pulsing headache sent tears crawling down his cheeks. He fought his own body for a few moments until the cough had seemingly passed and he swayed upright, dabbing at his eyes.

He tried to inhale. His vision blurred.

Alexander crumpled to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lordy, this chapter almost didn't happen until next week but i love y'all so much that i sucked it up after two days of travel.
> 
> i just finished reading the song of achilles, which was absolutely incredible, but may also contribute to some... angst. no regrets.


	4. Chapter 4

John had found a rhythm in the last days, adjusting as well as he could to Alexander’s absence. He still assisted Baron von Steuben with drills and spent time with Lafayette and the other aides, but more and more John preferred to spend his free time alone in his tent making notes on various military and legal texts. Alexander certainly would not neglect his studies even while on a mission, and John was determined not to fall behind his friend in their intellectual endeavors.

It was one of these solitary hours that was interrupted when a messenger pounded into camp. Alexander’s note to General Washington announcing his intent to approach Henry Laurens had arrived only hours earlier. John was proud of Alexander’s straightforwardness. He himself had been less than forthcoming with his father at certain times, but he knew the man would respect Hamilton’s confidence.

The serenity of study shattered when Lafayette burst into his tent.

“Laurens,” he gasped. “Hamilton.”

“ _Vous savez qu’il n’est pas ici,_ ” John said, but frowned and set down his pen at the look on the Frenchman’s face. His manner was distracted, almost panicked.

“ _Non—une lettre, sur Alexandre. Il est malade._ ”

Stinging ice shot down John’s spine.

“Ill? Where? What happened? Who sent the letter?”

“ _Votre père. Hamilton est tombé malade cours d’une rencontre._ ”

John stood shakily. The paper he’d been holding fluttered to the ground, but the soft sound barely registered in his rushing mind. Alexander was ill. Alexander was so ill that his own reticent father had written to headquarters reporting the news. Lafayette held out the letter, crumpled in one hand in his hurry. John took it, smoothed the page with trembling fingers, and tried to assemble the words that swam before his eyes. As he read, he could feel the color draining from his face, from the world, until a monochrome abyss stared back from the dark slashes of ink.

“I…” What could he possibly do? He was days away from Philadelphia, he was not a physician, he had no legitimate reason to fly to Hamilton’s side.

“ _Allez. Allez à lui._ ”

“How?” The word was only a choked whisper colored with denied tears.

“ _Il faut que quelqu’un demander des fonds. Vous êtes le prochain choix—aucun offense,_ ” the marquis added with a reluctant twitch of a smile. John could not reciprocate with premature grief gripping every muscle. Lafayette continued, “I will explain to _le général._ _Allez-y!_ ”

With a stumbling blessing for Lafayette’s quick mind, John grabbed his satchel and packed the necessities. As soon as he made excuses to his gravely concerned commander, he was racing down the Philadelphia road toward his love.

 

* * *

 

 

As he rode, John ruefully remembered the letter Alexander had written during his own journey more than a week before. The ride was indeed excessively uncomfortable, even tempered by the desperate energy fueling him, and his haste was such that he planned to camp in the woods rather than indulging in the comfort of an inn. _No matter,_ he thought. _Any means that hasten a reunion are well worth their sacrifices_.

Wagons, carriages, horses, people flitted past. John’s ears pounded with worry. What if he arrived too late? What if his Hamilton was seized with a fatal disposition? He often suffered little illnesses, but never in their acquaintance had one manifested so severely as this seemed to have done.

Dusk descended all too soon. Laurens cared for his horse and built a small fire. The August nights had not yet turned to coolness and the extra heat was less than welcome, but John liked the illusion of security and company the flames provided. Glowing embers and leaping sparks made a night less lonely.

Even with the light from his fire, Laurens glimpsed wheeling stars through the trees overhead. He had never been a particularly attentive student of astronomy, even when Alexander tried to teach him, but some nights—when he’d lain on the deck of a ship across the Atlantic, when he’d camped among his compatriots, when he listened now to the nocturnal clamor of the surrounding woods—he wished he could see the mythic heroes among the constellations and tell himself their stories.

Alexander loved those tales. He copied lines from classic literature between notes on economics, John knew, trying to find a model among the warriors and statesmen. Would those ancients serve this fledgling republic? If anyone could transform their lessons into the foundation of a new world, John supposed, it would be his Alexander. He could only pray that he might learn as well.

Laurens stared toward the sky, studying the way color and darkness flickered across the overhanging leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

In dreams, the guilt John tried to escape pursued him relentlessly.

Alexander’s warm embrace folded gently around him, but John’s own fevered skin prickled at the touch. He shivered in his lover’s hold. Nonsense words streamed from his lips when he tried to speak to Alexander, tried to tell him he longed for him, loved him, would care for him. He looked to Alexander’s face, thinking to communicate wordlessly, but his beautiful brown eyes were glazed, glassy, their liveliness slipping away—slipping away—they weren’t Alexander’s eyes, they were his brother’s, little Jemmy’s, slipping away like the quiet blood on a stranger’s bed in a foreign land where none of them belonged, it had betrayed them, it had turned John into things he never wanted to be, and so he ran—

He ran tripping away, wrenched from his Alexander’s arms, staring into Jemmy’s cold eyes, stumbling toward the ocean that might carry him back home. The ship was already leaving so he plunged into the water, too warm for England, more like the lazy summer rivers of South Carolina where his brother was still alive and he had never made these mistakes. Home, home, perhaps he could turn back time if he swam home across the ocean, but the waves were tugging at his clothes until their dead weight dragged him under and Alexander’s deathly pale body floated past, whispering pleas and accusations.

His own rattling sobs woke him in the gray dawn.

 

* * *

 

 

Where any sane traveler would need three days to reach the city, John, spurred by fear and fleeing guilt, stood on the cobbles outside his father’s house only two days after leaving camp. The narrow red-brick facade loomed over him. He had never been here before, to the home Henry Laurens rented from a family acquaintance while attending the Congress. It was predictably elegant from the street, if modestly sized compared to their estate at Mepkin—but then city houses were smaller by necessity, and John could hardly pass judgment when he’d been sleeping in cramped military quarters or in open air for months. Regardless, a brief return to certain comforts would not be unwelcome.

Now, though, he _must_ find Alexander. Henry’s letter mentioned that he’d ordered the aide cared for at the house rather than moving him back to his lodgings or to one of the overcrowded city hospitals. John was grateful for this arrangement; it allowed him to monitor Hamilton’s condition while maintaining his pretense of taking the man’s place in requesting funds, since there was no question that he would stay with his father while in Philadelphia. One did not weaken a connection with the very man who might control the army’s fate.

His curt rap at the door was answered promptly by a servant who ushered him down the hall to Henry’s office.

“Father,” he said, voice tight.

Henry looked up from his reading.

“John!” he cried. His composed movements betrayed no unmanly enthusiasm as he laid aside the paper and rose to greet his eldest son.

“I was not aware of your coming,” Henry said calmly. John winced internally. His father was not fond of unannounced guests, but the situation had required immediate action.

John tried to explain while Henry approached. “We received word at His Excellency’s headquarters that our emissary, Colonel Hamilton, had been taken suddenly ill. I was the choice to succeed him in his petitions and we felt it necessary to proceed as quickly as possible. Forgive any intrusion, Father. I serve at the pleasure of the General.”

“Yes, I understand,” Henry said, now standing before his son. He raised one hand to John’s shoulder. John straightened under his touch, trying to look every inch the competent officer. _I_ am _a competent officer,_ he reminded himself, but his father’s coldly assessing gaze still made him feel lacking.

Apparently satisfied with the boy before him, or at least not displeased, Henry turned away. “A drink?” He pulled the cork from a decanter of liquor.

John cleared his throat. “I would appreciate a glass, sir, but first might I see Colonel Hamilton? His Excellency was adamant that I keep him informed of the Colonel’s condition.”

“Ah, of course. William!” The same servant reappeared at the door. “Show Colonel Laurens to Colonel Hamilton’s room. Dr. Morris is returning in an hour.”

John bowed and followed William from the room. His heart beat twice as fast as his footfalls up the narrow stairs. The wild sound of it seemed to knock right through his ribs.

A quiet room off the uppermost landing finally yielded a glimpse of Alexander. The afternoon light lay warm across his bed and a slight breeze from the open window stirred a scent of vinegar. Hamilton was sleeping restlessly, blankets tangled around his sweaty body, fingers clenched in the sheet. John drew a chair up to the bedside.

“Oh, my dear boy,” he murmured, sinking into the chair and leaning over his suffering lover. One hand went to Alexander’s forehead—far too warm, far too pale. What was this illness? His eye caught a bowl of lemon peels on the nightstand, then the neat array of medicinal instruments atop the dresser. A large bound tome rested on another chair: DOMESTIC MEDICINE, its spine proclaimed, W. BUCHAN.

The book was well-kept and neatly annotated, presumably in the physician’s hand. A simple wooden paper-knife was thrust between the pages. Thinking it might mark the relevant section, John carefully flipped the volume open to see the header, OF THE MALIGNANT, PUTRID OR SPOTTED FEVER. He blanched but continued reading.

He skimmed the causes with no real shock: foul air, bad food. Military life, especially during the summer campaigns, was hardly sterile, and their lack of good provisions was exactly Hamilton’s purpose in being in Philadelphia. Suddenly the words _highly infectious_ and _keep at a distance_ wrenched his heart with panic and he scrambled to find a handkerchief in his coat but never considered leaving Alexander’s side.

Hamilton shifted frequently, releasing labored little sighs without waking. John petted his tense hands and kept reading.

The doctor arrived as Laurens struggled through the section on symptoms, some of which were truly unsettling. He fervently hoped that his Alexander was not afflicted with such terrible things—pain, delirium, spots on the skin and violent hemorrhages.

“Pardon me, sir?” A gentle voice startled Laurens from his horrified reverie. He hurriedly dropped the book onto the bed and stood to greet the soft-spoken physician.

“Doctor Elizabeth Morris,” the woman introduced herself. John could not contain his surprise; she smiled wryly. “We are rare, but we exist, Colonel Laurens,” she said. “I am the doctor the army will not have, so I tend to the city. And to your fellow.”

He bowed, embarrassed. “Forgive me, madam, I did not know who to expect. I thank you for tending Colonel Hamilton. He is an indispensable asset to the patriotic cause and a dear friend. We would indeed be lost without him.” The slightest tremble entered his voice toward the end of this speech. John dug nails into his palms to calm his fearfully shaking hands. “Pardon my intrusion. I had only wanted to know what ailed him so I might inform our commander.”

She set her bag on the chair from which John had taken the book. “Yes, I imagine General Washington must be apprehensive. I hear that Colonel Hamilton is his finest man. Don’t fear what you read there”—she gestured toward _Domestic Medicine_ on the bed—“it seems so far a mild case of this malignant fever, although the signs do point to such a diagnosis. Only time will tell now. I am doing all I can to treat him. In the meantime, I advise you to exercise caution. This disease can be infectious but if you insist on providing company, please keep by a handkerchief dipped in vinegar or lemon juice.” She held up her own such precaution. John nodded.

“If I may ask…”

Dr. Morris raised one dark eyebrow.

“I studied medicine a little before turning to law, I meant to ask how you are treating him. I… did not read so far.”

The physician smiled kindly. “Aside from the usual fever treatment of gentle sweating, the standard regimen is first the use of acids, like those lemon peels and the vinegar, to dispel the putrid humors. Drinks sharpened with these acids are also advisable for a patient of malignant fever, and a little light food. Any more extreme remedy I prefer to put off unless some more dangerous symptom appears to prevent weakening the patient further.”

“No bleeding?”

“Not given these symptoms, no. The most important thing is for Colonel Hamilton to rest and have fresh air and good food, all of which Mr. Laurens has provided.”

Relief sank into John’s bones. “Thank you,” he said, gratitude making his words more forceful. “Your service to him is a service to our nation. I will take my leave.” With another person in the room the only loving gesture he could make toward Alexander was a brief glance, but he sent every grateful prayer with it before he turned for the door.

“Colonel Laurens?”

“Yes, madam?”

“Please wash your hands before you go anywhere else. As I said, it is infectious.”

John obliged and slipped away to let the doctor work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vous savez qu’il n’est pas ici. = You know he’s not here.  
> Non—une lettre sur Alexandre. Il est malade. = No—a letter about Alexander. He is ill.  
> Votre père. Hamilton est tombé malade cours d’une rencontre. = Your father. Hamilton fell ill during a meeting.  
> Allez. Allez à lui. = Go. Go to him.  
> Il faut que quelqu’un demander des fonds. Vous êtes le prochain choix—aucun offense. = Someone has to request funds. You are the next best thing—no offense.  
> Allez-y! = Go!
> 
> All medical knowledge came directly from the 1789 edition of the book mentioned, Domestic Medicine by William Buchan. The text is here: http://www.americanrevolution.org/medicine/medicine.php  
> It's a pretty cool read!


	5. Chapter 5

Alexander wandered in delirium. A beach breeze trickled into the hot upstairs room, but it was oddly devoid of the ocean’s salty roundness. Instead it carried a sharp stab of—vinegar? He wrinkled his nose and pressed it into the pillow to escape the harsh scent. Who'd brought vinegar into the bedroom? Maybe some was spilled in the street outside. Clumsy shop boys, knocking about their goods. His mother would never let that happen to her wares.

His mother. Wasn’t she in bed beside him? She was sick, too. He reached out and felt the brush of her warm hands, large and comforting against his childish ones. The female voice that drifted through his murky mind, though, was wrong. Her accent was too much like the vinegar, sharp, without his mother’s roundly oceanic French syllables. Alexander’s eyes opened just enough to see a neat, dark woman hovering over the bed. He peered through his lashes at her, less shy than surprised. This woman was too well-dressed to be in their home, no matter his mother’s family or his father’s noble heritage, and he was about to ask who she was when a wave of overwhelming sleepiness took him under.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Alexander, Alex!_ ” A fading voice in the gloom. She was panicked, pulling her toward him with her voice and then her arms but he drifted down and away. The sea at dusk: the waves bloomed with bright, careless paint while smoke and shadow swallowed the shore. Alexander wanted to see the sunset up close.

He struck out toward the last glimmers of light across the horizon, sweeping his arms through the familiar Caribbean waters until they ached but never drawing closer to his destination. The sun slipped out of sight as he watched. The sky was still painted bloody.

A fishing boat floated near, laden with passengers. Washington presided sternly from the prow with Lafayette seated at his feet. John leaned over one side, calling Alexander’s name.

“Come, Alexander, we have to go to Congress!”

“No, John, I promised I’d go home.” He never recalled saying that, but it must be true. He wouldn’t lie to his John.

The boat drifted away again. John’s sad green eyes watched him until they disappeared in the distance.

A sudden wind buffeted him—more than a wind, a gale. A hurricane on the rise. The bloody sky was yellow now and bruised with an oncoming storm that towered over the sea. Gun blasts of lightning struck the waves and thundering cannon rumbled. Where had his friends gone? They could never hold off the storm tide, they would all be killed and Alexander would have to drag their bodies from the depths, straining with effort and grief…

Waves sent him tumbling down until he lost all sense of direction, growing more afraid every moment that he would never escape. Then something in the water shifted and clear, warm air was in his lungs again, making him splutter and cough to rid himself of the accidental sea.

He coughed himself back into a semblance of consciousness.

The dark woman was leaning over him again, looking grave. Someone else’s hand held a handkerchief to his mouth.

“Colonel Hamilton.” Her accent was sharp but the tone was soft. Alexander wondered how she managed it. His heavy eyes didn’t want to be lifted to meet her gaze but he fought them to comply. He couldn’t refuse a lady.

Her cool hand rested against his forehead, his cheek, his neck. He sighed at the relief it brought despite her frown.

“Bring the Colonel,” she said over him. Another woman hurried out of the room.

“Mr. Hamilton, keep resting,” she told him. “You are not out of danger yet.”

He slid back into sleep. Maybe he would see John again in dreams.

 

* * *

 

 

This time he watched the approaching hurricane from the shore, paralyzed with the premonition of destruction. Someone screamed his name again. She tugged at his coat but he couldn’t move, wouldn’t run, had to stare down the storm until it consumed them. He’d run from fate before. This time it had caught him.

Enormous clouds mounded over waves that pounded the beach. The sky, only bruised before, looked now like the bodies they’d pulled from the field at Monmouth, mottled in the summer heat. Cold sweat broke across his brow. The water was the color of gunmetal and acrid smoke.

“No, no, no,” he said, almost choking. A phantom took his hand and held it tight; he wanted to wrench away and face his horrors alone but every muscle was still bound with fear.

“Colonel!” The sharp accent punctured his focus on the storm. She was standing before him on the beach, braided hair whipping in the rising wind. When he blinked his mother was there instead with tears rolling silently down her face. “ _Alexander,_ ” she whispered. The phantom hand still gripped one of his but the other reached out toward her as he cried, “Mother!”

“Alexander—” John’s shaken voice was so near that Hamilton whirled to discover he was the one clutching his hand.

“Oh,” he murmured. “Oh. You’re here. I thought you were with Washington.”

John faded away without speaking again. When Alexander turned back to his mother, she had disappeared too. He stood alone, frightened, on a now cold beach while hurricane winds beat the sand into stinging flurries that scraped and scratched his skin even through his clothes, leaving pinpricks of pain across his body. He shivered away from the onslaught.

Flinching shook him back into bed. Two women moved quickly around one side of the room, handing each other little items. A third figure blocked Alexander’s view of the window. It was brilliantly silhouetted against blazing light, with a bright halo hovering around the head. _An angel_ , he thought suddenly, seized with delirious awe and no small amount of fear. Was it here to protect him or take him? Tears flooded his blurry eyes as the angel moved toward him. His mouth was too thick to form words but he silently pleaded for it to deliver him back to John, whether in life or another realm. John was all he wanted. Dear boy.

Gently, the angel took his hand. Alexander’s skin prickled painfully at the contact but the gesture was soothing. He trembled, whether from fever or apprehension he couldn’t tell, but the angel’s fingers were firm around his own. It jerked slightly toward the women, as if assessing their attention, then lowered its shadowed head to lay the barest brush of a divine kiss across Alexander’s knuckles. He whimpered slightly. Closed his eyes. Felt the rush of oblivion envelop him again.

 

* * *

 

 

The storm’s rage was sudden and relentless. Fat raindrops soaked Alexander where he stood on the beach, entirely exposed to whatever divine retribution this might be. Swollen clouds surged overhead. Lightning danced along their edges, threatening to strike but never descending.

He was alone.

Screams of fear and agony sounded further inland, but Alexander knew that they were fighting and dying, and that he was the only one facing the hurricane and feeling the terror it instilled.

Once they were all gone… The storm tide would sweep everything away. It always did. Bodies and debris, fear and hatred and last-minute invocations of grace.

Would he drown this time?

For interminable hours the wind and rain pummeled Alexander into the sand, tore into his flesh, and drove him finally to his knees. He wished he were on the battlefield instead—he could still hear the conflict, though its sounds were fading—so that he could face an enemy he knew how to fight. In the hurricane, waiting was the only thing.

He prayed to the angel in his room, the one with such a sweet kiss.

He prayed to his mother, if mortal souls could do any good.

He prayed to see his love again, just one last time.

As he whispered John’s name with clinging reverence, the storm broke. The eye of the hurricane.

Bruised yellow sky opened above him, ringed with towering clouds. In the eerie silence he felt every abandoned raindrop sliding over his abused body. Waves still churned onto the shore and sent flecks of wild foam leaping around him, but their liveliness seemed less deadly in the surrounding calm. Alexander breathed easy for a few moments, nearly falling down in relief at the storm’s brief abatement.

When he heard the rattle of rain on the sea again, though, he began to cry silently with dread, knowing that the other side of the eye was always worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm.... very into weather imagery. Fight me.
> 
> (Don't fight me I was really excited to put all my practical hurricane experience to use)


	6. Chapter 6

Hamilton’s condition had slowly deteriorated and then stagnated over the last several days. John watched helplessly as the doctor and her nurse administered increasingly complex remedies and prayed quietly, hoping that God might listen for Alexander’s sake if not his own.

He spent the rest of his time consulting his father on the army's financial situation. Henry seemed to be chafing at his presidential role.

“They've completely stripped the general officer of influence for fear of centralizing power,” he fumed to his son over dinner. “I accomplished more as a state delegate than in this damned Congress!”

“Do you think the system of governance could be reformed?” John asked. “After the war is done?”

“That would be a war in itself.” Henry drained his wineglass. “I’d put money on that Hamilton managing it, though, if he lives to see it.”

John couldn’t help the small smile that sprang to his lips. Pride in Alexander was an emotion he always welcomed. “I am sure he will, Father. Colonel Hamilton is a singular mind.”

“You, too,” Henry said. “You, my boy, ought to be in it as well. You’ve been well educated in the law.”

Ducking his head to hide an embarrassed flush, John replied, “Well, for the moment I am but a devoted soldier of the patriotic cause. If God finds it proper to make me a statesman, so be it.”

After he bid his father goodnight, John retreated to Hamilton’s room again rather than his own. The man had slept restlessly through nearly all of John’s time in the house. His rare moments of wakefulness were still not entirely lucid, although John thought he’d been recognized the day before when Alexander murmured something about having been with Washington.

John shed his uniform coat and settled into the chair at Alexander’s bedside. The late sunlight illuminated the sheen of feverish sweat that covered his lover’s golden skin. John brushed away a few strands of dark hair that clung to Alexander’s forehead and used his handkerchief to wipe beads of sweat accumulated there. Hamilton looked mercifully peaceful, especially following the previous day’s fitfulness. For hours he’d muttered fragmented phrases in English and French and even a language the doctor identified as Hebrew, occasionally crying out or thrashing under the blankets. It shook John’s carefully schooled composure to see his vivacious Hamilton reduced to this.

“We must see you through this, my dear boy,” John sighed, not particularly caring whether Hamilton could actually hear him. He tucked the handkerchief into Alexander’s palm. “The General needs you.” He took a breath. “ _I_  need you, Alexander.”

He spent long moments stroking his fingertips across the back of Hamilton’s hand, trying not to disturb him but aching for closer contact. At any other time they would have rejoiced at such a chance for quiet intimacy, but John couldn’t appreciate this privacy when his love was barely clutching at strength. With great effort he stilled the creeping tide of nauseous fear that rose in his throat. _Alexander will be fine. He just needs rest and care._

Daylight slowly leached from the room. A servant appeared briefly to light the lamps, then left John to his anxious meditation. Tonight the darkness seemed ominous in a way it hadn’t before, perhaps because of the tranquility of the street outside or the deeply oppressive heat. John realized suddenly that the month had changed since his arrival. The September nights would begin to cool soon, hopefully releasing them from the summer’s misery.

The reminder of the date twinged his guilt at not having written to camp. General Washington would be awaiting news of the progress with Congress, and Lafayette would be desperate to hear about Hamilton. He crept from the room to fetch his writing materials from the adjacent chamber, then returned to complete his work while staying close to Alexander.

His scratching pen and Alexander’s shifting were the only sounds in John’s ears. Even the city around them was serene, settling breathlessly into the evening. When John paused in his writing, the slow chime of a clock downstairs filled the silence. Ten o’clock.

There was little more he could write tonight, but he was loath to leave Alexander’s side. Instead he pulled a book from his satchel: Ovid’s _Amores,_ a rather sentimental keepsake from his time studying in Geneva. He thumbed to the first poem and began to read aloud.

 _Arma_ _gravi_ _numero_ _violentaque_ _bella_ _parabam  
__Edere_ _,_ _materia_ _conveniente_ _modis_ _.  
__Par_ _erat_ _inferior_ _versus_ _:_ _risisse_ _Cupido  
__Dicitur_ _atque_ _unum_ _surripuisse_ _pedem_...

His careful Latin floated into the space until it seemed more like their happy nights in a shared tent. They would often read to one another, prose, poetry, academic text, sharing knowledge and giving the words personal substance in the midst of rending war. Alexander liked the excuse to display his linguistic talents, choosing extracts in every language he knew and watching John’s expression closely to catch him in a moment of admiration. John, romantically reserved though he was, preferred reciting directly into his lover’s skin, making him shiver and moan under his hot breath.

Tonight, though, the words hung heavy between them after a time. John missed Alexander’s usual charming smirk and breathless giggles, the way he tried to distract with little kisses. He finished the third elegy in a whisper.

A yawn bubbled up from his chest. John rubbed one hand across his eyes, trying to fight the weight but knowing the gesture was fruitless. The combined stresses of Hamilton’s illness, seeking funds, and contending with his father’s strict expectations were wearing on his energy. He reluctantly set the _Amores_ aside and pressed a tender kiss to Alexander’s forehead, then gathered his things and retreated to his own room.

The young nurse was ascending the stairs when John emerged onto the landing. “Colonel,” she said quietly, dipping her head in acknowledgment.

He returned the gesture. “You will be here for the night?”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Morris wants someone with medical knowledge to stay with him.” She lifted her chin, clearly proud to be entrusted with the responsibility.

“Thank you for your attentions,” John said with a smile. “I bid you good night.” They both moved toward their destinations before John stopped again. “Wait, miss…”

The nurse paused.

“Would you alert me should Colonel Hamilton’s condition change? For better or worse? Or if he wakes. I think he might appreciate the presence of a—friend.”

She nodded. “Of course, sir. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Restlessness set in the moment John closed his door. There was no more writing to be done, but his fingers itched for a task. Maybe he ought to offer the nurse his help… No, he didn’t wish to seem condescending, and he trusted Dr. Morris’s judgment in assigning the young lady to care for his Hamilton.

The insistent humming of his mind forced the decision. He needed to do _something_ to keep distracted and use his hands, and he knew from his school days that few things were more effective for that combination than copying text. The _Amores_ would have to do.

One of his copybooks was already open on the desk. He settled in, letting the worn _Amores_ fall open so he could read the neatly printed Latin and let his own script scrawl across the page. Copying another language required just enough concentration that he couldn’t fret excessively about Alexander.

Certain less conscious parts of his brain, though, managed to wander. Every time he raised his focus from the page to refill the pen, he was gently startled to remember that he wasn’t at headquarters. Of course, if he were, Hamilton would be muttering and scratching away at his side, not fighting illness in another room. He glanced up, worried, when a cough sounded through the wall, but the nurse did not appear and so he returned to his writing.

His eyes began to droop again as the poet praised his mistress’s naked body. He’d rather have Hamilton under his hands, sighing happily at John’s touch, squirming with giddiness under a shower of kisses. Alexander wriggled so prettily when he was impatient, stretching out before his lover like an invitation. He would break into an impish grin at the least sign of reverence from John, which Laurens could never deny him, and so even their most secretive trysts were threaded with lighthearted glee.

John lurched from his reverie when he heard sudden, violent retching. He dropped his pen immediately and sprinted to the landing, frantically throwing Alexander’s door open.

The man thrashed on the bed, obviously trying to tear off his nightshirt, much to the nurse’s distress. In the candlelight John saw that dark blotches had appeared on his skin and sweat darkened the sheets under him.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

The nurse’s wide eyes told him enough, but she said, “He’s taken a bad turn.”

John roared down the hall for a servant to fetch the doctor. He didn’t care who in the household might be asleep. His Hamilton was in danger.

In the endless minutes it took for the doctor to arrive, John and the nurse stripped Hamilton’s sweat-soaked nightclothes and tipped little draughts of negus into his lolling mouth. He slurred incomprehensible words between these drinks and fought weakly against their hands. John clenched his jaw and persevered in whatever direction the nurse gave him. If he kept moving, kept working, he might not collapse in fear and despair.

Dr. Morris finally rushed up the stairs and sprang into action. She inspected Alexander’s mouth and exposed skin and snapped at the nurse, “Peruvian bark.”

John plastered himself to the far wall in the doctor’s presence, trying to calm his own breath but unable to tear his eyes from Alexander. The doctor rounded on him.

“Colonel Laurens, your help is no longer required,” she said. “In the interest of protecting your own health I strongly suggest you return to your own quarters.”

No, no, he couldn’t leave Alexander, no... “I need to stay,” he whispered. “He is my friend and has no one else in the world. I will not hinder your work but I must stay.”

“So be it.” Dr. Morris returned to her ministrations.

Hamilton continued to struggle against his caretakers, but his weakness was so great that the two women had no trouble controlling his limbs. His delirious cries pierced John’s heart. Still leaning against the wall, Laurens started into a fervent stream of prayer for protection and deliverance. In some deep place he doubted the effectiveness of divine supplication, but in this moment of desperation it was all he could do.

 

* * *

 

 

The blackness of night that John had thought so grim was gradually washed away by a bleakly colorless dawn. He’d spent the last hours tucked into an upholstered chair, gripping the arms so as not to cave in on himself and fighting sleep and the haunting dreams it brought. Alexander was not Jemmy, helpless though John felt to save either of them.

Finally the doctor’s eyes found him again. She looked entirely drained. All Laurens’ hopes fled at the resignation in her face.

“He’s sweating blood.” Her voice was flat. “His hands and feet are cold. If he begins to convulse, there is nothing more to be done.”

Fire and then ice flooded John’s veins. Alexander was going to die.

While Dr. Morris dismissed the nurse, John cautiously approached the bed. He sank to his knees at Hamilton’s right hand and laid his head on the blanket.

“Oh, God, Hamilton, you cannot leave me,” he said, choking on the words. “Please, Alexander. Hold on.” Unheeding of the doctor’s warnings about contagion, he folded Alexander’s cold hand between his own and pressed his lips to the clammy skin. If his love was dying, he might as well follow.

“I am sorry,” the doctor said. Her weary eyes were sad. “Sometimes even our best efforts are in vain.”

John shook his head haltingly. “This is the most stubborn man I know,” he told her, ignoring the hot tears that slid down his cheeks. “If he dies, it’ll be on the field with a weapon in his hand, not of a—a fever. He deserves that much at least.”

Dr. Morris gave no response. John let his head fall forward again, soaking the sheets with silent sobs. It was hardly a soldierly response to grief, but John was too deeply entangled in feeling to care about the effect on his military reputation.

The sounds of the city reviving for the day seemed callous in the face of this impending tragedy.

A sudden twitch of Hamilton’s hand only made John cling tighter. _Convulsions,_ he thought hollowly. _This is the end of him._ Seeing the movement, the doctor frowned and moved toward the bed again. She leaned over Alexander.

After a short inspection closely watched by a numb John, Dr. Morris turned back to him with incredulity in her expression.

“Not convulsing,” she breathed. “He’s not convulsing. It’s a shiver. His fever’s breaking.” She dashed to the dresser and the medicines there and began work in earnest.

John was frozen in place, disbelieving.

“ _What?_ ”

“The fever is breaking. He’s sweating it out, he’s calmed, he may still recover. Get up, Colonel, go find someone to bring more water.”

A task, an order. John staggered to his feet, staring down at Alexander with joyful fire licking at his heart, then ran out of the room to do the doctor’s bidding as quickly as possible so he could return to his love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna go hide.
> 
> The full Latin text of Ovid's Amores with various translations is here: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.02.0068%3Atext%3DAm.%3Abook%3D1%3Apoem%3D1  
> Eternal thanks to sightandsound3733 and her beautiful writing for inspiring that particular scene.
> 
> Oh, and negus is "a hot drink of port, sugar, lemon, and spices." 18th-century medicine is really questionable. I'm glad I live in the 21st.


	7. Chapter 7

“I thought you were on your deathbed,” John said hoarsely. “I thought you’d die without ever saying my name again.”

A day after breaking his fever, Alexander sat propped up in bed with John in a chair at his side. Evidence of illness still lay about the room in the form of the doctor’s supplies, although the usual mess that accompanied a conscious Hamilton was gaining prominence. Papers were already strewn across the bed and his travel desk was perched on the table next to John.

“My dear Laurens,” he rasped, voice still feeble from the ravages of the fever, “do you believe I would leave this world without once fighting a member of Congress?”

John snorted. “Of course not, my dear.”

Hamilton’s aching eyes crinkled in a soft smile. “I did get close a few times before you came. Scoundrels in the majority. But more sincerely…” He hesitated. “I could never bear to leave you behind. Not when I can imagine the pain I would endure in losing _you_.”

The blush that stained John’s freckled skin tugged at Alexander’s heart. “You flatter me,” he muttered.

Alexander shook his head sadly but did not push the subject. He knew John was reluctant to allot himself any great importance in others’ estimation regardless of declarations to the contrary.

“Is there any word from headquarters?”

John reddened again. “No, I, ah, only sent a report yesterday.”

“Yesterday? Dear boy, you’ve been here nearly a week!”

“Not all of us write every moment we’re alive,” Laurens grumbled, but he didn’t seem particularly offended. “Aside from that, there was nothing much to report until your little adventure. Congress still has no funds to give us, and no way to raise them.”

“This blasted country,” Hamilton growled. “Forever wailing about the best way to govern and never stopping for a moment to question the way we’re going about it now. I know they abhor taxation, but God save us if we win independence and only then realize that a government with no power to levy taxes is doomed to deficiency.” His mind was already whirling with ways to lay out a revised system. “Pass me that copybook, John, and a quill, I need to write something down.”

Instead of complying the man pulled the items further from Hamilton’s reach and said, “No. You’ve been ordered to rest and you’ll get none if I let you work yourself into a political fervor.”

It was childish, but Alexander dropped into a pout and stretched toward his papers anyway. John fixed him with an aristocratic glare.

“ _No._ ”

Falling back against the pillows with a huff, Hamilton said, “Then _you_ will have to divert me. Carry on, Colonel Laurens, conjure some entertainment.”

John’s laugh was such a welcome thing. He tipped his head back and let the sound roll into the room, lips stretched wide to accommodate his happiness. They were both smiling when he reached for a worn book on the windowsill.

“What’s that?”

“You know the _Amores_?”

“Ovid? The one about the mistress?”

Another chuckle. “Yes, that one.”

“I didn’t know you so appreciated the fairer sex, John.” That earned Alexander a poke in the ribs. He batted Laurens’ hand away. “Don’t assault me, man, I’ve been ill.”

“An unaccountable pain is what you’ve been,” John said, but there was still good humor in his voice. Alexander caught his hand and laid an apologetic kiss on the back of it. John’s face softened into a smile again. “Oh, my dear, I missed you,” he sighed.

Alexander threaded their fingers together. “And I you. I am so glad to have you here, John.”

John’s quiet Latin again filled the space, this time punctuated with Alexander’s impertinent commentary. Their hands never unclasped until Alexander slipped back into sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

“It is good to see you recovering, Mr. Hamilton.” Henry Laurens’ commanding voice sliced through Alexander’s concentration the next afternoon. Hamilton immediately dropped the paper he’d been reading.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, sitting up straighter in bed. “And thank you for your hospitality. I did not intend to impose so upon your kindness.”

“Ah, think nothing of it,” Henry said with a wave of his hand. “Patriots must serve patriots.”

“Of course, sir.”

Hamilton fidgeted while Laurens’ keen eyes inspected the room, suddenly conscious of his half-dressed state and the disorder of his surroundings.

“My son is keeping you good company?” Henry asked.

“Yes, sir, as always,” Alexander replied truthfully. “Colonel Laurens is a peerless companion.”

Henry looked pleased by the compliment. “Well, fear not for your cause. My son has taken it on with enthusiasm while you are confined here.” He paused thoughtfully. “He always was an industrious boy, a good student. I am glad to see his dedication extends to this as well.”

“Yes, sir, he is one of our most devoted soldiers. An admirable example of what a martial man should be.” Alexander would never refuse to praise John, but he grew steadily more uneasy in Henry’s presence, as if there were some way the man might discover his son’s secret from simple proximity to its accomplice. “Is there any way I might offer my services, sir?” He cringed at the awkward transition, but he couldn’t deduce Henry’s purpose in prolonging the conversation.

“No, Colonel, I merely wished to express my pleasure at your recovery, and to extend the invitation of lodging as long as may be necessary. You are welcome to use the library downstairs as well. John tells me you are a great lover of classic literature.”

“Thank you, sir, I am. I would be glad to have use of the library. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”

Henry just nodded. “Good day, Colonel.”

“Good day.”

 

* * *

 

 

John was oddly agitated that evening to hear of his father’s visit.

“He was perfectly cordial, my dear,” Hamilton assured him. “He said he was glad of my recovery and offered use of the library.”

“That’s all?” John asked.

“Well, yes, aside from some comment on your industrious nature which I could only agree with.” Alexander stilled John’s nervously fiddling hands. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” John said, clearly forcing a smile. “It must be the stress of dealing with the Congress.”

Gravely Alexander asked, “You’re not feeling ill, are you?”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Laurens laughed, “I feel perfectly well.” He leaned over to kiss Hamilton on the cheek. “Shall I read more?”

“You could let me have pen and paper instead,” Alexander wheedled.

“Certainly not. I’ll happily fetch you books from the library but writing is not resting, Alexander.”

He pouted again, knowing John wouldn’t take his protests seriously. Hamilton’s lover was twice as stubborn as him when he cared to be. “Fine. I ought to make you read til your tongue falls out.”

“Ah, but then what would I use to kiss you?” John murmured, reaching for the _Amores_ with a teasing gleam in his eye.

“If I called you a scoundrel, would you challenge me to a duel?”

Laurens smirked. “Perhaps, but which of us would claim Lafayette as his second?”

“I suppose I must refrain from insult then. The poor man would be frantic.”

Tossing a crumpled handkerchief at Alexander, John said absently, “Do hush and listen to the poem, Ham.”

Alexander complied, twiddling the embroidery on the handkerchief to occupy his hands but still mulling John’s apprehension.

 

* * *

 

 

Another four days saw Hamilton in the library under his own power, the greatest exertion the doctor had allowed so far. Hamilton complained to John about Dr. Morris’ strict orders, but the confidence with which she gave them and her infallible logic persuaded him to obey.

The city rattled past on the cobbled streets outside. Alexander ignored the shouts and scuffles that drifted through the open window on a languid air, engrossed in a volume on Achilles and the Myrmidons.

“Are the continentals not antly enough for you, Colonel?”

Alexander rolled his eyes without looking up at John. “Are you here only to mock my choice of reading, or is there something substantial to be said?”

“Now, now, a man who has been so severely ill must not leap to such harsh conclusions. Perhaps your mind has been affected by the fever.”

That earned him a glare. “I should think a man so concerned would be less heartless,” Hamilton said.

“I am wounded!” John laughed. “Heartless! And me your own dearest friend. If that is how you truly feel, I shall take myself away directly and never share this letter I have from headquarters.”

Hamilton was already setting the book aside. “A letter? When?”

“This morning, as I was leaving for the state house. You were still asleep.”

“You could have left it for me,” Alexander said with a slight frown.

“You’re not meeting with delegates,” John reminded him gently. “The news must reach me first so I am best informed on how to proceed. You know that.”

Alexander held out his hand for the letter, scowling. He might not be leading the fight for funding at the moment, but he certainly shouldn’t be left in the dark where the army’s welfare was concerned. John sighed and handed it over.

“Washington shouldn’t have Meade taking his dictation,” Alexander muttered.

“There is nothing much new on their end, but you ought to read the note from Lafayette on the reverse.”

Flipping the page over, Alexander scanned the cramped script and translated aloud.

“‘This wild tale of Hamilton’s health has worried us greatly. Do not hurry back for our sake but make him stay and take rest. I will permit him to make me a better birthday present than this letter on your return.’ ...Birthday present?”

John was grinning. “He was twenty-one on the sixth of September. My letter would have reached them that day. I’m afraid you’ve quite offended him, my dear,” he said. He gathered Hamilton into his arms. “You shall just have to recover quickly so we can return and ease his mind.”

Little kisses along his ear made Hamilton hum happily.

“I suppose I will.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the next week Hamilton was allowed out of the house for brief periods, so Laurens accompanied him on leisurely walks to a nearby park. They argued about politics as they made their way through the crowded streets, Alexander’s insistent voice belied by the timidity of his steps and the hand he kept on John’s arm to steady himself.

“I think my father is going to resign the presidency,” Laurens said one day. “He seems frustrated by the lack of clout given to the office.”

“One could hardly blame him,” Hamilton replied, raising an eyebrow. “They elect a presiding officer and then refuse him even the basic rights allowed a mere delegate? Anyone can see they are going about it all wrong.”

“How would you designate it, then?” They settled onto a low bench, tucked under a shady tree at the edge of the park.

Hamilton considered the question seriously for a few moments. “The existence of a Congress is essentially non-negotiable given the basis of our revolution in lack of representation, but there should certainly be a powerful executive overseeing government. A guiding hand to integrate the disparate voices of the nation.”

“You’ll meet some resistance on that,” John observed. “It’ll smack of monarchism to the public.”

Alexander tossed his head proudly. “If they don’t have a plan, they’ll have to use mine. Now, as for an economic system...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: DIALOGUE, THE CHAPTER
> 
> Forgive the potentially declining quality of this chapter and the next, I'm trying to finish this up in a sprint so I can focus on a personal project for Camp Nanowrimo. To that end, I don't plan to publish any new works in July, but I'll be collecting requests through my tumblr inbox (hydraxx.tumblr.com/ask) all month. I hope to see y'all back in August! (Chapter 8 will go up before I take my leave. Give it a few days.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the rating change.

Five long weeks after Hamilton rode for Philadelphia, he and Laurens climbed into a hired carriage to begin their return journey. They carried promises from Congress to address the chronic lack of supplies as soon as funds could be acquired, although Hamilton protested the uncertainty of the timeline on that front. John simply thanked his father for his magnanimity and cheerfully took his leave. He was glad to be free of the city.

As they clattered through the narrow streets, Hamilton sighed. John glanced up at him across the carriage. His handsome face glowed with sunlight reflected from outside despite the deep shadows in which they sat. His figure was still painfully thin after his illness, but John was glad to see him reclaiming his natural exuberance. Now, though, Alexander stared almost wistfully out the window at the passing scene.

“You hardly saw the city,” John observed. “Will you truly miss it so?”

“Oh, not terribly.” Hamilton turned back to his friend. “It seems the sort of place where one would find trouble as often as not, and you know better than any how easily I succumb to those temptations.” His teasing smile made John laugh.

“Then why do you sigh, my dear?”

“More the fact of the return than anything else. I feel useful when I can work under my own power, not at the General’s beck and call. I know I’ve been carrying out his orders, but… why doesn’t he trust me to take a command?”

_Ah, there it is._ “I’m sure he would give you such confidence did he not rely so much on your administrative intuition.”

Hamilton pursed his lips. “I am hardly holding the cause together. I’d be far more influential in a field command.”

“Would you?” John asked, genuinely curious to know Alexander’s mind. “With your position as an aide, you have ready access to the General’s ear and you already carry the weight of his esteem in conducting strategic and logistical affairs.”

“Oh, he doesn’t really listen to me,” Alexander said bitterly. “And why should he? He’s got power, titles, land, money, everything an impoverished bastard from a forgotten colony could dream of. Washington doesn’t need me, John.”

Laurens was silent. He was helpless when it came to assuaging Alexander’s insecurities about his status. How could he possibly bolster his friend when John himself had everything the man lacked? He was born into property and the myriad privileges that wealth brought. Reminders of their inequity rattled him, especially because Hamilton was one of the most fiercely proud and honor-bound men he knew.

Alexander added softly, “Not the way I need him, at least.” _For influence, for a career, for survival,_ he didn't say, but John knew the words he intended.

There was no way to respond while preserving both their dignity.

 

* * *

 

 

At a roadside inn that evening, after dining and socializing among fellow travelers and locking the door of their shared room, Laurens coaxed Hamilton into stretching across his lap. It stood testament to Alexander’s lingering fatigue that he obliged without significant protest. John methodically undressed his lover, laying each piece of clothing carefully aside until Alexander sprawled naked before him.

Despite the fierce temptation of Hamilton’s body, Laurens moved his hands to the man’s head first and untied the plain ribbon that restrained his dark locks. Alexander sighed when his hair fell free and John raked his fingers through it, gently stroking the scalp.

“You are too kind to me, my dear,” Hamilton murmured.

John smiled a little. “It is no more than you deserve,” he whispered. “A brave soldier, a brilliant scholar, an honorable gentleman and unequaled friend.”

“Ah, but I could say all the same about you.” Alexander’s eyes were closed now, and he pressed his head back into John’s caress. “Brave enough to rush headlong into any danger. Brilliant to devise and defend unassailable arguments. Honorable to a fault. And unequaled in all you do.” John’s heart squeezed.

Unable to resist any longer and spurred by warm sentiment, Laurens bent down to ease a kiss onto Alexander’s sweet mouth. His lover responded happily. Alexander returned the favor of pulling the ribbon from John’s hair so that his thick curls tumbled around their faces. Incrementally, John shifted their positions so that he lay alongside Hamilton, holding him tenderly in one arm while the other hand tangled in his hair. Their lips and tongues were soft against one another, almost hesitant after so long unwillingly separated.

Laurens wanted to relearn every curve of Alexander, all the minuscule changes wrought by weeks of confinement. He slid his fingers from the back of Hamilton’s head along the delicate skin beneath his ear to the stubborn angle of his jaw. From there his throat was enticingly vulnerable, and John felt every ridge of it beneath his fingertips as they continued their exploration. The dip of a collarbone, his proud chest, ribs still exposed from the desolation of disease. With every observation John silently vowed to preserve and defend this man and his life, everything he was and everything he would build one day.

Hamilton fumbled at the buttons on John’s clothes to get him to a similar state of undress. It seemed long minutes before they lay entirely revealed in each other’s embrace, moving slowly to take in every brush of skin and adoring sigh.

“I missed this,” John said quietly, leaning his forehead against Alexander’s. “Having you in my arms. Kissing you.”

Alexander pulled him into a deep kiss. In their growing ardor Laurens advanced again, pressing Hamilton into the bed until his lover clutched at his back and crooked one leg over John’s calf.

“Don’t leave me again, Hamilton,” he growled, viciously ignoring the reality of their circumstances—the fact that neither of them controlled their own movements. “If you go off and die without me, I’ll kill you a second time in heaven with God as my witness.”

“You ought to talk,” Alexander gasped as John rocked their hips suddenly together. “Lafayette said you were nearly killed at Brandywine—”

“Ah, but that was before I had you,” Laurens whispered hotly at Hamilton’s ear. “What would have kept me from it til then? Thinking of my father and his aspirations? The places I was so unhappy? My—” The word “wife” died with vitriol in his throat. He closed his eyes. “My siblings, waiting for a glorious brother to carry the family weight? No, Alexander, they were never as much temptation to live as _you_.”

Hamilton moaned under him, the sound accompanied by little whimpers and a hard push of his hips against John’s. Laurens let his full weight trap the man beneath him and kissed him hard.

Alexander writhed, escaping the kiss to pant into John’s neck. A sharp bite on his earlobe made Laurens groan. Hamilton’s tongue and teeth were merciless, pulling and sucking on the soft flesh while John shuddered and gasped. When he was released John dove again to his lover’s lips, echoing Alexander’s own intensity. Their mouths were hot, desperate, crashing past earlier hesitations to make up for too many weeks lost to separation, illness, and dread of discovery.

John ground his hips down onto Alexander, wanting to feel every jolt of his lover’s body responding to his attentions. The hand that had begun its travels at Hamilton’s head now sat at his waist, fingers clutching the smooth brown expanse, holding tight as if he might slip away without warning. _He might,_ a nasty voice whispered. John silenced it by making Alexander moan again.

They were tangled across the bed, Alexander powerless under John’s weight. Laurens’ roaming hand crept lower. He felt the sharp ridge of hipbone and skimmed his fingers over Alexander’s low belly, caught between teasing and apprehension.

This kind of worry had occasionally marred their trysts before; that was the nature of love during war, John thought, especially an illicit love. Threads of fear and guilt wove an ever-present pattern in his mind. With Alexander warm beneath him, though, Laurens mustered the will to banish these tormenting thoughts for the sake of a rare moment.

Thinking only of Alexander, the fiery man in his arms, John covered his jawline with hungry kisses as his hand worked ever downward. Hamilton let out a whine when John’s fingers met sensitive flesh.

“Yes, yes,” he breathed. His back arched impatiently.

With renewed focus, Laurens began unhurried strokes while biting motley bruises into Hamilton’s neck. Alexander tilted his head to the side to accommodate his lover’s activity, still whining in short bursts at every nip.

“Oh, God, John,” Hamilton groaned.

“Hush,” Laurens murmured, and sealed his lips over Hamilton’s to keep some measure of quiet.

Eventually he slipped his hand from Alexander’s cock to grip his ass, rocking their hips together in a steady rhythm to maintain the friction that made him quake. John could feel urgent tension building at the base of his spine. He broke their messily prolonged kiss to suck at Hamilton’s throat again, wanting to hear the pretty noises that fell from the man’s lips. Alexander did not disappoint. Every whimper encouraged Laurens, brought him closer to the edge.

Hamilton gasped with each buck of his hips, grinding his cock against John’s. Laurens was almost painfully aroused but desperately clung to self-control, wanting to watch Alexander fall apart for the first time in weeks. His thrusts stuttered slightly.

“Please—John—yes!” Alexander’s increasingly high-pitched whines were cut off suddenly by a long moan as he came, screwing his eyes shut and biting his bottom lip. His release, his cry muffled by biting his lover’s shoulder, his body tightening in John’s grip, sent a primal shiver through Laurens and then he was following, nearly sobbing with relief into Hamilton’s neck.

Orgasm shook them both. Alexander panted through his, canting his hips up in little thrusts until he was spent. On top of him John clenched his fists and pulled their bodies tighter together while his teeth sank one last time into Hamilton’s throat, covering a groan.

Their chests heaved where they lay, slick with sweat and hot, eager breath.

“My Alexander, my Hamilton,” John muttered, shuddering slightly in the aftershocks of his climax. His face was still buried in Alexander’s neck. “Oh, my God.”

“I love you,” Hamilton whispered breathlessly.

Their greedy kisses carried them deep into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

They finally arrived at camp just behind a blustering autumn rainstorm. A crisp air welcomed them as they stepped down from the carriage and waded toward headquarters through ubiquitous mud.

“I hope it all freezes over soon,” Hamilton grumbled.

John laughed. “You’ll regret that in the depths of winter when all your ink and all your fingers have frozen as well,” he reminded his friend. Alexander glowered but with no real heat. John knew he was happy to return to his element at the forefront of the cause, even if his subordination to Washington was an irritation.

The General himself greeted them when they entered the aides’ workroom.

“Gentlemen,” he said in his usual grave tone. “We are grateful to have your services returned to us once again.”

“And we are glad to be back,” John replied with a bow. Alexander copied the motion, somewhat hesitantly, beside him.

“Colonel Hamilton,” Washington continued, turning to his aide. “I must speak to you first thing tomorrow regarding another assignment.”

“Yes, sir.” John noticed that Hamilton’s posture straightened infinitesimally although his face remained stoic.

“In the meantime, our Marquis has requested that you both be delivered immediately to his quarters. I believe there is some sort of celebration awaiting you.” The General would never have smiled, but the cadence of his voice suggested amusement. John was suddenly apprehensive about what they might find in Lafayette’s tent.

“Thank you, sir,” they said. Washington nodded dismissal.

They stopped at their own tent to lay down bags before continuing on. John took the opportunity to steal a sweet kiss from his love, knowing they would have little time to themselves once they’d reentered the daily grind of war. Hamilton’s small smile lifted his heart.

A certain buoyancy lightened John’s step as they neared Lafayette’s tent, eager to reunite their trio. He laughed when he saw the clutter of soldiers spilling from the entrance and they put up a cheer at the appearance of their honored guests. Tilghman and Meade grabbed them and hauled them inside the tent to where Lafayette presided alongside Baron von Steuben.

“ _Mes amis!_ ” the Marquis cried, and stumbled forward to wrap them both in a tearful embrace. “I have missed you!”

When John looked over at Alexander the man was laughing, glowing in the dusk and lamplight with a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! We have reached the end! As I said last update, I'm taking the rest of the month off from fic to work on a personal project, but I have Plans for things to come in August. Until then, I will be available on tumblr (hydraxx.tumblr.com) for any questions, comments, headcanons, screaming, etc. you want to send my way!


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